Nocturne of Shadows
by Dagorhir
Summary: Hadrian Potter had always known he was different. When the world becomes his playground, and rules set in a time long ago begin to change, the wrongs of the past are laid bare, and the lies are brought to light. About himself. About his family; truths will be unveiled, and alliances will be made. At the heart of it lies the heartbeat of life itself, and the forgotten song of magic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note**

This is a retelling of Hadrian James Evans Potter's youth at Hogwarts; however, I am going to try to make things a bit different from the normal retelling, and for a variety of reasons. Those will come up at a later point. Several of my current reviewers have likely already noticed a difference in my chapters, with no Author's Note after the first chapter. However, should there be anything I need to say, it will be left at the very end of the chapter so no reader has to go through a block of text to get to the actual writing.

Also, as a starting note (because I already know people are going to ask) the Tom/Harry pairing exists for a reason. Yes, it will be a romance. No, it will not be up and early in the story due to the fact _Hadrian _is eleven years old in this story, but he will show up. Multiple times, at that. Also, the reasoning for the name _Hadrian _being used will be explained in the story.

**Story**

Hadrian Potter was everything the world anticipated, but more. He was nothing like what they thought he would grow to be. The world is his playground, and the rules set in a time long before are changing. Wrongs will be laid bare, and the past brought to light. Truths will be unveiled. Alliances will be made. A world reformed. At the heart of it lies the heartbeat of the world, and the forgotten song of magic itself.

**Disclaimer**

I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the books of the series. Therefore, I do not make any money off of this, and this fanfiction is written for enjoyment, and as a means to develop the skills every writer possesses. It is my hope everyone enjoys the story, and those who do read this are as inspired by the world the author created as much as I was.

Read, Enjoy, and _Review!_

000  
>00<br>0

For as long as she was able to recall, _normal _was the one thing little Hadrian would never claim as his. She had learned not to question it.

Petunia, kneeling next to her sleeping nephew, felt the smallest of smiles ease onto her face as she brushed a few strands of inky black hair from his face, her face lined with sorrow. Her nephew's skin, spotted with fading bruises, was soft. Warm against her touch. It was like warm milk, pale and containing an inner glow. The small boy turned into her touch, eyelids twitching in his sleep, and her gaze shifted from his sleeping features to the organized mess she found every night.

Beside him rested an array of books, some much too advanced for such a small child to understand, while others were of a gentler reading. Short stories, fairy tales, and children's books. Old sonnets and more advanced books, however, were often of history or psychology. Of the relations between people and the world around them, how they were connected. There were a few books on different fields of science _she _had never heard of mixed in.

It reminded her of her dear little sister so much it hurt. Little Hadrian James Evans Potter, his name scrawled into the back of the cupboard with black paint, the lettering smoother than most children his age, told her so much. He was, without doubt, Lily's child. Her sister's only son. Her sweet, little nephew. He was as much her son as Dudley was, and, as she caressed his cheek, she felt her eyes dampen.

So small. So young. So _fragile_.

Yet so incredibly sharp. So frighteningly intelligent.

Pale, strawberry blond hair curled around her face as she caressed her nephew's cheek. She watched as young Hadrian Evans stirred, his eyes opening with a slow steadiness of a tired child, half lidded, to reveal sleepy, electric green irises. Eyes the color of death, a green so intense, so bright, only _magic _was able to express the true radiance of what came after life. The color of death, Lily had described in a letter so long ago.

"Aunty," She smiled as Hadrian rolled onto his back, a sleepy smile easing the lines of worry on his face. She ran her hand through his thick, midnight black hair. The strands slid between her fingers, unruly and untamed as they fell to settle around him. The child rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, sitting up to a yawn stifled behind a thin hand. His hair, falling just past his shoulders, waved around his face, blocking his eyes, as he stretched. "Is it time, aunty?"

"Yes." She scooted back, her nightgown sliding across the floor, as Hadrian crawled out after her. He stood, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, and grinned up at her. Bright green eyes so light, so warm. So small, this child. As small as a boy of six instead of one turning eleven. She watched as he closed the small cupboard door, locking it tight, and he turned to face her seconds after. His gaze found hers, and, as she knelt, bringing them eye-to-eye, his gaze did not waver. He smiled as she ran a hand down his arm, and took his hand in hers as she murmured, "Vernon left early this morning, and he won't be back for a week. We have the house to ourselves, darling. Just you and me."

"What about Dudley?"

"He's staying at a friends, and won't be back until the day before Vernon."

She saw his eyes light up. A happy ray of pleasure. Petunia felt his magic, so potent and thick, wash over her as he bounced in place, a small human being filled with unlimited energy. Green irises gazed into her, and she answered his unspoken question. "I left some clothing in the bathroom for you. Go wash and change. Then we'll head out for London. Go on, little bird."

She watched as he bounded down the hallway, and disappeared around the banister leading upstairs. As she made her way into the kitchen, she heard the shower kick on, and the house groaned. She absently gathered breakfast together, a small pile of sandwiches and a healthy helping of fruit and milk, and set out two for breakfast. She packaged the others, and paused, listening, as the shower quietened. In minutes, Hadrian was in the kitchen, a bright grin on his face, and his eyes gleaming behind black-framed glasses.

"That was quick." She handed him his breakfast, and watched as he devoured it in a handful of bites. Her eyebrow arched, and, sensing her attention, his gaze rose to meet hers. A sheepish smile answered her quirked brow, and he downed his milk in one go before washing the glassing and putting it away. His voice was light, airy, as he said, "We'll go to the bookstore, yes? And the park? And other shops?"

"We'll go wherever you wish, honey." She told him as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. He passed her the keys, and Petunia locked the door behind them as they left the house. They made their way into London in peace, Hadrian humming a soft tune under his breath as he sketched out whatever resided in his mind. The soft whisper of a pencil on paper was soothing, and she relaxed, breathing calmly, content, for the first time in a month. "Should we go to the bookstore first? Or is there somewhere else you would like to visit before we head there?"

"The Museum, if possible." Hadrian's bright green eyes gleamed, a thoughtful look on his face as he gazed out the window. Petunia held her silence, knowing well enough he wasn't finished. She was proven correct when he continued, "There is history in art. It shows more than a book spells out. Words can be reshaped. The image distorted. Art is true emotion. The soul of an artist, be it a writer or a painter, is a doorway to one side of the truth."

"What of the other side of the truth?" She questioned him, a soft smile playing at her lips. Hadrian hummed under his breath, and answered, "It is but one more side to unveil. But what is truth? And what is lie?"

"Have I ever told you that think a bit _too _deeply?"

"Every day, aunty." His soft laugh echoed through the car, and the rest of the ride was filled with gentle conversation. What to bake for the week. What meals, and activities they could do with Vernon out of the house. They spoke of art, and of music and poetry. Of stories, and the unbridled passion for meaning when the world was shadowed and dark. It drew her from the darker thoughts lingering on the edge of her mind.

Vernon. Her husband. A man she once loved.

Hadrian had long since fallen into himself, and only the soft whispers of pencil on paper told her that he was awake. Her husband. The bane of her nephew's life. Of _her _life. The ring on her finger mocked her as she parked shy of an hour later, and her fingers clenched the steering wheel. Petunia brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear before climbing out of the car, and her nephew, sweet little Hadrian, was out and by her side in moments. His hand slipped into hers. So thin. So small. Her _husband's _doing.

_Weak. I am too weak to stop him. _She still felt a phantom pain in her wrist. She could still fell the crushing pressure, and the release as it broke under her skin. The man she married was gone. A man she had grown to know, a man who would come home to shower her in gifts and love...a love she doubted. Had it ever been true? Had he once loved her?

"Aunty?" She blinked, and her gaze shifted towards her nephew. Hadrian, gaze solemn, caught, and held, her attention. His fingers squeezed around hers as he said, "The pain is temporary, aunty. In time, it hurts less."

He was too young. Too small. Too thin. He was too young to have to endure such hardships. To endure such pain. To know what it was.

Petunia cursed as they entered the warmth of the museum, the vast gallery a beacon of light soothing in its presence.

She cursed Vernon for his abuse. For his complete disregard for hers, and Hadrian's, suffering.

Above all else, she cursed herself for the weakness she could not refute.

000  
>00<br>0

His first memory was of death.

He recalled a nursery, and a woman rocking him. Spinning across the room, holding him close, singing softly to him, and the soft, flowery fragment of her body as she cooed to him. The cradle was behind her, massive and much to large for one child, and he could recall a man, black hair and laughing hazel eyes, smiling down at him before vanishing out of some distant door. Then she was dancing with him, singing softly. He recalled some kind of sound, a noise loud enough to draw his attention from the woman he assumed was his mother, and a flash of green light under a closed door.

As he moved from one painting to the next, Hadrian Evans knew one truth. He knew death like a child knew its mother's love.

As he gaze at the newest picture, not fully processing what he was staring at, Hadrian's mind turned. Images, they played out like a movie on a giant screen and the sounds as fresh, and crisp, as if it had just happened. The door exploding, a man surrounded by shadow, the redheaded lady's voice frantic and more than a little desperate. Underneath it all, the soft song hummed, a backdrop of noise in his mind, and made the memory difficult to remember. All he could recall, fully, was a song without a melody.

It was an echo of the past, and, as they moved from the gallery, and drove to the bookstore, the first few words of the song haunted him.

_Sleep, child, sleep. Sleep in your mother's heart. _

At times, it came to him a dream. A soft verse, a song or lullaby. Upon wakening, the words were all that remained. In his dreams, he suspected he would find the melody, but, in the realm of the waking, it was lost. It was elusive, and quick to flee before he could grasp it between his ever-reaching fingers. A song his _mother _sang to him, so soft and haunting and filled with so many layers. His brow furrowed, and, as he dunked into the bookstore, pausing at the entrance to wait for his aunt, he tried to recall what little else in those memories he could.

A crib, two sizes to large. A nest of blankets, red and gold and silver. A backdrop of pictures, the images too blurry for him to care about. A wardrobe, and a massive amount of infant's clothing inside. Lots of toys. Then there were blocks in the room, on a bench built into the wall under a massive widow, some kind of seat the redheaded woman sat in and red to him, but the _blocks_. Sometimes he could make out letters. Four letters. Abel.

It was frustrating. As his fingers skimmed the spines of innumerable books, books on ways of the past, of Lords and Ladies and Kings and Queens, he could hear it. He could hear the song, regardless if he was awake or dreaming. It was a lullaby, dark and haunting, following him deep into furthest reaches of his mind. Sometimes he thought he could hear someone talking, and catch some of the words. No one was ever there.

Hadrian skimmed through the pages of a book, eying the castes and ranks of nobility listened within, and paused at the picture of a headsman with his ax held high. He stared, unable to look away. The man, hands bound behind his back, was at the headsman's feet, head covered in a black sack. As he lightly traced the picture with the tip of a single finger, words came, drifting, from the depths of his being.

_Let the wind blow and the rain fall, hear the executioner's call. Watch the traitor's head roll as the Shadow takes his soul. _

Death. It was a presence, a force, ever-constant. It came and went. A person died. Another was born. He snapped the book closed, and put it back in its rightful spot on the shelf, and hurried away. He moved to other books, from the structure of society and the hierarchy of pack animals, to a massive book on display about the world itself. He paused before it, his hand gently turning the pages until one caught his eye.

A cliff overlooking a vast body of water, the color of the purest, and coldest, hue of blue and green. An ocean. He ran a finger over one painted wave, imagining the scent of salt in the air and the soft lull of waves lapping the shore as the end of the lullaby drifted in the depths of his mind. An endless thing, something he could not escape from. The voice of a woman. The warmth of being held. And words, spoken low and hypnotic.

_Sleep, child, sleep. We shall never part. For we will soon be free, together, forever, in the cold, cold sea._

"Hadrian?" His gaze shifted to his aunt, and he felt the smallest of smiles ease across his face. She had several books in hand, among them a new sketchpad, and he felt the air around him, the atmosphere of the room, warm. He felt it lift, the darkness lightening, as his mood elated. She ran a hand through his hair, her eyes soft, warm, as she murmured, "Did you find anything that caught your fancy?"

He cocked his head to the side. There were several books that had caught his attention. "How many am I allowed?"

"Three. Any more, and Vernon will notice."

Hadrian nodded. He turned, and swept through the aisles. His aunt followed, and he picked out the books he had noticed earlier. 'The Lost Legends of Sadir' was the first, an old book, its author unlisted. The headsman was lost in those pages, buried deep, alongside all the castes of people in the world of old. The lords and ladies. Villagers. Priests and priestesses. Somewhere inside of him, something stirred. A good choice, this book. He ran a hand down the spine as he hunted down his second choice, 'Rapture and Rupture,' from a shelf. His aunt raised a brow, and he grinned. He made his way through the bookstore, looking for a third item, looking for _something_, when he sensed it.

A soft pulse. A hum of energy. He paused in the shadows of a shelf, and turned. Darkness.

After a hesitate moment, he followed the pull. It lead him into the back, to an old shelf, and his gaze sought out whatever called to him. He saw it within minutes, nestled at the heart of all the books. He set the two books he held aside, and carefully eased the massive tome from its place on the shelf. Its cover was deep gray, like ash, and the spine, outlined in overlapping and twisting knots of silver, fashioned in a very Celtic manner, was lettering in the same silver. He peered at it, eyes narrowing, but could not make out the words.

Petunia, coming upon him, gazed at the book. He turned, and offered the three books. "These are the ones I want, aunty."

She nodded, and took them with a smile. He released them with reluctance, and followed her to the front of the store. She and the shopkeeper spoke as the elderly man went through the books, and the shopkeeper paused, gaze glazed as he passed a hand on the unnamed book of grey and silver, before shaking his head. He rang up the books, passed them back, and bid them a good day. Petunia took the lead, and, hand-in-hand, they went from shop to shop. Some displayed antiques. Others showed furniture, cooking ware, and a few had rare plants in bright colors.

His aunt pointed out a variety of things to him. Different buildings. Places with food unique and different, and undoubtedly delicious. As they settled in a seat at a small cafe, Petunia, voice was soft, caught his attention as she said, "Your mother and I ate here when she was home for the summer. She loved the chocolate pie they serve here."

"She did?" His mother? Ate here? Hadrian grinned.

"Yes, she did." His aunt smiled at him, the evening sun turning her hair a burning red. "We'll split one between us. How does that sound?"

It sounded perfect. He didn't need words to express that thought. His aunt ordered, and they ate it. The pie was beyond perfect. It was silken. Smooth. Cool. It flowed through him, a blissful warmth filling him. It stayed as they drove home that evening, and, as the night wore on, and as he settled into his small room, spiders easing onto the mattress once he was comfortable, he found himself smiling.

One spider, larger than his both his hands combined, made itself comfortable on his knee as he placed his books in a shadowed corner, hidden from the door and unseen unless looking for it. He shooed the spiders to the side, and flopped onto his back. In moments, several of the eight-legged creatures were upon him. Their legs brushed against his skin, soft and ticklish. Others observed from the beams overhead, numerous eyes unblinking, and their bodies blended into the shadows of the ceiling.

As he began to drift into darkness, one massive spider burrowing into the pillow next to his cheek, something nudged at his mind. Something important.

His gaze shifted towards the grey-silver tome. His mind focused on the receipt. As he rested, burrowed in warmth, he realized what he had missed.

That one tome wasn't listed on the receipt despite being bought. The money, tucked safety in his aunt's wallet, remained untouched.

And that tome, of grey and silver, sat, nestled, unnamed, in the corner of his room. A mystery. An impossibility.


	2. Chapter 2

For many a year, Hadrian had grown accustomed to things never going _quite _the way he liked.

As he began his usual morning routine, long before the sun had crawled over the horizon to let the world know it was time to wake up, he found himself in the kitchen at the table eating a handful of fruit with a small glass of juice next to him. Petunia would not awaken for some time yet, and, for the time being, his mind was focused solely on his newest possessions. Three books. Two which had titles, but remained author-less, and a third with a title he couldn't decipher no matter how long he stared at it. It was that third book he was studying intently, a book which was _open, _but completely empty. He had flipped through every page, and there was well over a _thousand _pages in it. And not a single word was anywhere to be seen.

Hadrian was more than a little confused, but, as he contemplated _writing _something in it himself, a strong sense of _revulsion _rose in him.

So it remained blank, much to his complete distress. His feet swayed under him, his toes not even grazing the cold floor, and the chair he had chosen, while uncomfortable, was angled just right. He could see the two doors in the kitchen, one leading into the front room and the other to the backyard and the garden he tended on a daily basis. His lips pressed into a tight line, and, as he ran a hand through the unruly mass he called hair, he felt his frustration build.

Who would sell an _empty _book, and not even ring it up? Or _any _of the books?

_I recall Aunt Petunia handing the man the money for the books. I remember each being rung up..._but somehow, in some way he could not even begin to understand, each book in his possession, and his aunt's books and supplies, were in the same boat as the silver tome in front of him. He turned, and pulled the receipt to his side, dark eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he looked at the blank sheet of paper where _words _should be written. And, like the grey-silver tome, it was blank. He wasn't even sure if he should bring this small matter to his aunt's attention or not. _Supplies bought, but no money spent. Vernon would never know she spent any money on us..._

That was a rather good thought. His...uncle was not a pleasant man when angered. Nor was Dudley, but the boy was raised under his _father's _hand instead of his mother's. Something about 'keeping the freaky business away from esteemed blood.' That was a phrase Hadrian was still trying to understand, but, when he asked his aunt about it, she merely ran a hand through his hair, a soft smile tugged at her lips, and she told him not to worry about it. He was a good boy. A perfect son, and his mother would be proud of him. But he still thought about what Vernon could possibly mean.

He wasn't sure what "freaky business" was, or why his uncle always directed _that _statement at him.

Adults could be so confusing.

"Hadrian?" He blinked, and turned in his seat to find his aunt in the doorway, dressed only in a nightgown and pale hair waving around her face. His aunt was pretty, he decided. Strawberry blond hair, pale green eyes, a minty color he thought to suit her well, and her skin, while bearing signs of long years filled with pain and struggle, was soft and lightly tanned. His aunt _was _pretty. And nothing like a 'horse' some the neighbors whispered when they thought he wasn't listening. Her neck wasn't _that _long. She had a figure like a noblewoman. If she dressed like some of the court ladies he had in his newest book, 'The Lost Legends of Sadir,' she would be rather regal looking. Anyone who said otherwise was blind. "Hadrian, dear, are you okay?"

He blinked, and flushed. He hadn't been paying attention. Again. He offered a sheepish smile, and turned to the book he was looking at, flipping it to a page he had already marked. He gestured her over, and pointed at it as he said, "She looks a bit like you, aunty. Tall. Thin frame. Sharp features. And she was a _noblewoman, _aunty. So when the ladies come over, and say you need a '_little extra_' to your wardrobe, you tell them about _this!"_

Petunia giggled, one hand hiding her mouth. She bent closer to the page, and, Hadrian, unable to keep his grin hidden, watched as she took in the picture. She cocked her head to the side, a thoughtful look on her face, and, after a moment, she stated, "I see you are right, honey. I'll see if I can get a ring or necklace like hers, and I'll shock the woman of Privet Drive by the sheer amount of noble radiance I actually possess."

And she said it with such seriousness. Hadrian tried to keep his expression stern, but his lip quivered, and then he began giggling. Petunia hid her laughter behind her hand, and, after a moment, sat at the table with him. She pulled the black book to her, the corners encased in a deep red, and eyed the title before asking, "You _do _know rapture is, do you not?"

"An intense feeling of pleasure or joy," He replied as he flipped through 'The Lost Legends of Sadir,' and his gaze shifted to her face. He tilted his head to the side, arm draped over the grey book, as he added, "It is also said to be the event when believers of Christ are delivered to Heaven. Though I think you were referring to the _first _definition of the word, and not the second. Why do you ask?"

She blinked in return, and then smiled. "I wasn't aware you knew the second definition."

"Marge made me read the Bible to her for a week." He replied offhandedly, a light frown marring his features. "Then, when I messed up, she sicked Ripper on me. So that's one book I'd rather not add to my collection. I don't want _anything _near me if it'll remind me of her and that beast. And she gave it such a suitable name, too."

"Don't worry about getting _that _as a gift." Petunia scooted his chair to her, and took his hair in hand. He stilled as she ran a brush through it, and nearly sighed when the tips scraped his scalp. His aunt continued, fingers weaving through his hair, "The Evans were never too big on religion, Hadrian, not even when I was a child. We honored more of the old traditions, before any of the mainstream religions came about. Though, after marrying Vernon, keeping to those traditions became next to impossible."

"What kind of traditions?"

Petunia laughed, and she tugged on his hair. He turned, and eyed the end of the braid in her hand as she replied, "We would mediate, more often than not. Take long walks through the forests of our home. My grandfather had a rather large ranch, way out of the way, and we'd spend an entire day on horseback to get to our campsite. Just the family and nature."

Hadrian turned fully, eyes wide, as he asked, "You rode _horses _when you were a little girl?"

"Yep." She grinned, and bopped his nose. "Lily did too, though she often rode with me. She was a bit uncomfortable on them, and tended to cling to my middle when we rode. Father would charge into the sunset on Nightscape, a massive stallion black as night, with grandfather next to him. Mother would stay with us and Grandmama."

His aunt rode horses. And so did his mother. And his grandparents!

He saw horses in 'The Lost Legends of Sadir,' and how nobles often had the best of them. It was a brief reading, sure, but he had liked the pictures. As he leaned in, green eyes alive with light, he couldn't keep himself still as she leaned in. She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and, as she stroked his face, fingertips running along the scar running from brow to ear, he grinned. She returned the look as she murmured, "At night, we would lay in the grass under the stars, and mother would tell us tales of old wise woman and how they would read the sky, and tell people their future. How the plants were medicine, and how the earth's heartbeat was _our _heartbeat as well."

"And then my mother...left?" Hadrian was slightly uncomfortable at that, but Petunia, sad smile in place, replied, "Yes, she eventually left. Your mother was special, despite her unease of horses, and found a place for herself. She could do things no one else could do. I've never met someone who could do the things she did. And she met your father, a man named James, and he was like her."

"Able to do things no one else could?" Petunia nodded, and stroked the spine of one of the books as she said, "Yes, he, too, could do what many people were unable to do. Things we could only _dream _of doing. Lily, your mother, the school she met your father at, where she met so many good friends, that school was filled with people like her."

Hadrian frowned. His mother went, but Aunt Petunia didn't? He brought that up, and she smiled, a sad little smile, before she murmured, "I'm not special like Lily was. So I wasn't able to go, though I wanted nothing more than to leave with her and never come back."

"This was after grandmother and grandfather died?" Petunia nodded.

She ran a hand down his side as she murmured a second after, "And, if I am correct, it is where _you _will also go. I'm not sure why the Headmaster of her school, well Deputy Headmaster when she was in school, thought you would not go...but I see the same things in _you _that I saw in Lily."

"You'll come to, right?" He didn't want to leave without his aunt. If he was gone, and Vernon came back, and his aunt was by herself...he didn't even _want _to think about the possible things that could happen. Instead, he turned towards her, legs brushing, sat his hands on his knees, and said, "IF I go, I want you to come to. We'll talk to whoever this Headmaster is, and we'll tell him that, if _I'm _to go, you, and Dudley, also have to come because Vernon isn't a nice man, and he won't be happy about me being somewhere he can't be."

His aunt blinked, and then she smiled. Hadrian felt his heart lift at the sight of it.

000  
>00<br>0

Two days later, whatever his aunt was waiting for arrived. Two days remained before Dudley came home, and three before Vernon returned. Hadrian, as he sat on the couch watching a documentary on wolves, paused, listened to the sound of a mail coming through the slot in the hallway, and paused the show and dusted off his pants. He left the front room, keeping quiet as he walked towards the front door, and paused. He gazed at the stairwell, at the shadows of the upstairs, and frowned.

His aunt was asleep. She had woken with a feeling of illness, and had retired to bed soon after waking. Hadrian had merely bid her a good rest, and cleaned the house before setting down at the couch. Now, standing in front of the door, a thick letter resting, face down, on the floor at his feet, he wondered who would send mail on the weekend. Outside, he saw a shadow, and, as he knelt down, another letter darted through the slot, and he leapt away from the door with wide eyes. A low hoot came from the other side, by the sound of something pecking the bottom of the door, and, as he picked up the two letters, he frowned. Was an...owl knocking on the door?

He opened the door, and, sure enough, there rested a fat owl. It looked rather cross, its feathers ruffled. Hadrian stared at it, and it returned the stair until he stepped to the side, and awkwardly invited it inside. "Please, do come...inside, Mr. Owl..."

It hopped inside, and Hadrian closed the door behind it as someone began coming downstairs. Petunia, wrapped in a housecoat, paused as she eyed the bird from the steps, and then at the two letters in his hand. He turned them over, and scrunched his nose. Both were addressed to Vernon, and he tossed those onto the table against the wall. He turned his gaze on the owl, and, after a moment, knelt and offered his arm. The bird hopped on without complaint as Petunia said, "As I thought. It would seem you _are _going to the same school your mother attended."

They made their way into the front room, Petunia heading into the kitchen, and Hadrian sat on the couch. The bird hopped to his lap, and nestled close as he carefully unwound the letter from its leg. His aunt returned with some sausage, and began feeding the bird the meat as he opened the letter. He paused, baffled, by the heaviness of the parchment, and his eyebrows arched as he eyed the letter within.

With some careful nudging form his aunt, he read aloud:

_"Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry;_

_"Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, and International Confederacy of Wizards...)"_

Hadrian paused, a scowl on his face, and looked at his aunt as he said, "I _refuse _to call him by all of that."

She raised one strawberry blond eyebrow, and, after a moment, he continued,

_"Dear Mr. Hadrian Evans, _

_Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, would like to congratulate you, and are pleased to say, you have a spot within this esteemed academy of magic. Enclosed is a letter of all needed materials and books and equipment._

_Terms begin September 1st, and we await your owl no later than the 31st of July._

_Yours,_

_Minerva McGonagall."_

Hadrian eyed the letter, turned his gaze on his aunt, and asked, "This _is_ a joke, right?"

Petunia fed the last of the sausage to the bird as she said, "Not at all. Go upstairs, and grab a pen and paper. Pen your reply. You're attending. After that, we'll head out and get everything you need. Better sooner than later, before Vernon gets home. Now, off you go, darling, and let me worry about our feathered friend here. I think I might have some more sausage somewhere in the kitchen..."

Hadrian was already halfway up the stairs when the owl's indigent hoot echoed across the house, a mission already forming in his mind.


End file.
